


Must Be The Truth

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit of angst in here, Adorable and unoriginal, But it all ends happily, Greg is smart, John is stubborn, Kind of cuddly, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock causes chaos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock returns, and has to persuade John to leave his bedroom in order to get into his bed. Shamelessly cuddly post Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Must Be The Truth

John sat in his armchair, staring at the wall. The big yellow smiley face stared back at him with a mixture of condescension and commiseration. Three months after Sherlock fell, Mrs Hudson had had the flat redecorated. John had tolerated almost all the changes quietly, but when the men had tried to paper over that section of wall he had lost it, shouted at them all to just leave, and stood guard over the wall until they were gone. The only other thing he'd protested was when Mrs Hudson had tried to take the skull.  
Over the faint sounds of the London traffic, a muffled crash echoed up the stairwell. Mrs Hudson had dropped something, John guessed. Judging by the volume and resonance of the crash, something rather heavy and breakable with separate parts, probably the tea tray. _Look, Sherlock, I'm deducing. Aren't you proud?_ With a sigh, John lifted himself from the pillows and put on his best I'm-absolutely-fine-oh-I'm-happy-to-help-thanks-I'd-love-a-cup-of-tea face. He'd been having tea with Mrs Hudson rather a lot over the past six months- he hadn't had the heart to refuse her immediately after Sherlock fell, and somehow it had become a ritual.  
As John padded down the stairs, the sounds from below became clearer- a quiet sobbing mixed with a deep hum that could be a man's voice, and then a noisy slap. John was becoming slightly apprehensive. He took the last flight of stairs at a slightly quicker pace. "Mrs Hudson? Is everything alright?" He rounded the corner and stopped.  
"John, dear-"  
John ignored Mrs Hudson, who was standing over a broken tea tray mopping her eyes, and stared into the room beyond.  
"John, look-"  
Silhouetted against the window was an excruciatingly familiar silhouette.  
"Look who's-"  
That voice spoke. The one John couldn't get out of his nightmares, the one which constantly repeated its note to John, constantly saying goodbye, constantly falling. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson, I'll take it from here."  
"But, Sherlock-" Mrs Hudson protested, in the same tone as she always had, when he'd interrupt her, or keep heads in her fridge, and oh god what if it was him, it couldn't be him, why had she used his name, why, why, why! Unaccountably furious, John fled up the stairs in a whirlwind of pain. _He can't be here! I saw him fall! He's dead, he's not here, he's dead, I saw his grave, it's a trick, he fell!_  
The door of the flat opened, and Sherlock- _it can't be Sherlock_ \- stepped over the threshold. "John."  
John stood up as straight as he could. "No. You can't be here. You- can't- be."  
Sherlock- _oh god it's not possible_ \- stepped forward, spoke in his seriously-careful-voice. "John, I know this is hard for you."  
"You fell, Sherlock! I saw you fall! You fell, and you DIED, and you can't be here." John backed away, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's not possible."  
Sherlock- _what if it is- but he died_ \- took another step forward. "I'm here, John. Once you've eliminated the impossible…" The words drifted into silence. John's heart was thrumming loudly, his mind awash with the sound of his own blood.  
Must be true.  
Must be true! He's here, he's not dead, he's alive, Sherlock's alive!  
Sherlock- _yes, it is him, SHERLOCK_ \- stood in the doorway, still wearing the stupid coat, still the same cheekbones, the same ice-colored eyes, the same dark curls, the same vitality. John made a slight movement, and Sherlock looked towards him apprehensively. "John, I-"  
John launched himself towards Sherlock and started punching every inch of him he could reach. "You- complete- ARSE- Sherlock Holmes!"  
Sherlock couldn't keep the relief out of his voice. "John, I- ouch- I realise- ouch- I deserve- ow- I was stupid- ouch- please listen- ow!"  
The flurry of blows showed no sign of letting up. "I thought you'd DIED, Sherlock! Jesus! Six- bloody- months! And all this time you were alive! Why the HELL didn't you tell me!"  
"Argh- John! Please listen!" Sherlock writhed away from John, who stood panting and glaring at his flatmate. "I'm sorry, John. I had to." Quickly, Sherlock explained about Moriarty and the snipers. "After that, I had to stay away- I needed to track down Moriarty's network. Any contact with you would have put you in danger."  
John's stance softened, just a little, but enough to encourage Sherlock to continue. "I only stayed away as long as was necessary. Although there may be the odd minor threat still remaining, I judged the danger diminished enough that I could return here. It may take another month or so before I can resume public life, of course." John twitched. "I…apologise for what I put you through, John. Will you forgive me?"  
John looked at Sherlock- _brilliant, wonderful, amazing, ALIVE, Sherlock_ \- and felt a little flicker of joy. He still felt angry- but this mixture of exhilaration and exasperation was the way Sherlock always made him feel. Of course he forgave him.  
John turned on his heel and marched away into his bedroom without another word. He may have forgiven Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't need to know that just yet.

***

Sherlock stood in the window, angrily plucking at the strings of his violin and pondering.  
 _Why was John ignoring him?_ The detective’s fingers angrily pizzicato-d out a D minor arpeggio. Sherlock had seen the anger in John’s eyes, but Sherlock had apologized, and given a perfectly clear explanation as to why his behavior had been necessary. Surely that ought to have been enough?  
John’s evident pain had upset Sherlock more than he liked to admit. Of course, he had believed Sherlock to be dead for six months. But Sherlock had calculated that, following a certain amount of sadness brought about by his innate kindness, John would have moved on- dated some more of those interminable women, maybe moved out to somewhere more easily affordable or found a new flatmate. Instead of which, he had evidently stayed static. Sherlock’s gaze swept the flat. Obvious details- his skull still on the mantelpiece, the new wallpaper stopping half-finished when it neared his smiley face- intimated that John was placing symbolic value on items linked to Sherlock. Sherlock’s seat was dust-free but appeared unused, not displaying any wearing- John didn’t feel ready to take the place that Sherlock had occupied. Yet neither was it gone. John’s chair, by contrast, was showing a remarkable amount of wear- nearly all the hours that John wasn’t at work, he was spending in it- and it had been dragged to sit facing the smiley on the wall. The fridge was meticulously clean and free of body parts, but one shelf was empty of any groceries- just in case anyone needed somewhere to keep anatomy, Sherlock decided. Lots of milk. Heart-clenchingly, twice as many mugs in the sink as John would use routinely, half of them empty and half still full of undrunk tea- Sherlock’s. Letters from John’s workplace- still the same surgery. A bill charging John for the vandalism of a chip and pin machine. Sherlock couldn’t stop a small smile creeping over his lips, but it was tinged with bitterness. Being a genius, he was able to deduce, finally, just how much pain he had caused his John- wait. HIS John? Sherlock paused. Why that word combination? That certainly needed considering. But later. He stored the incident in his Mind Palace, in the “Conundrum” room. For now, there were more pressing issues to deal with. He had hurt John, and now John wasn’t speaking to him.  
Sherlock snatched up his bow, and played several violent flourishes. He would, he decided, just have to see about earning John’s forgiveness.

*

Sherlock whirled into the flat, carrying several bags, and knocked vigorously on John’s door. “John! John! I bought milk!”  
When this elicited no response, Sherlock attempted to open the door. It was locked. It took Sherlock almost ten minutes to work out the sort of lock and devise a crude lock picking device. He burst into the room, triumphantly. “John! Look! I purchased milk for us! Will you accept it?”  
John jumped off of his bed, red-faced, glaring and swearing. “Sherl-” He caught himself. Sherlock upended the bags, causing eight jugs of milk to slide onto the rusty carpet. “I’m sorry, John. You are brilliant, truly. I would never intentionally hurt you. I will buy the milk next time too. And the time after that. I’ll buy the milk forever, John!”  
John sighed, but didn’t speak. With a fixed gaze, he scooped the milk off of the floor and carried it to the fridge. Sherlock followed him, bouncing like a puppy. “You can put them on the head shelf, there’s room for them, and I promise no more heads. For at least six months.”  
John shut the fridge door, and returned to his room, resignedly. The door clicked shut, and a heavy dragging sound suggested that he had pulled his chest of drawers in front of it.  
Standing in the kitchen, Sherlock frowned to himself. Clearly, being helpful was not enough. It was time to take a different strategy.  
Over the next few days, John emerged from his room only to grab some food and- encouragingly, Sherlock thought- to drink milk. In the meanwhile, Sherlock had tried every method of reconciliation he could think of, and noted the results in the file on John’s laptop he had termed “Experiment into Earning the Forgiveness of an Adult Human Male”. Midnight serenades on the violin resorted in muffled curses, and pillows thrown at the door. Filling the hallway with flowers and greetings cards meant calls for Mrs Hudson to clear it up- “I’m not your housekeeper!”- and a very protracted stay in the bedroom. Letting off fireworks in the kitchen to attract John’s attention and then begging his forgiveness as they waited for the fire truck to arrive, oddly, seemed to soften John’s silence. But nothing would get him to talk. After three days of alternatingly friendly and hazardous schemes, Sherlock threw his hands in the air (a wasted gesture without John to see) and exclaimed loudly that he was “done, John! Done!” Still no response.  
Sherlock’s mind was whizzing in circles. He sat on the sofa, brooding and occasionally bouncing ideas off of the skull. Why did he care so much about John? Why did he see John’s face when he closed his eyes (and, worryingly, some other parts of John’s anatomy)? _Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side_ , remarked his mind. Sentiment? Is that what it was? Surely there was an experiment he could do to test that. Closing his eyes, Sherlock imagined being without John. Oh! A sudden clenching feeling, and a wave of horror and loneliness. Interesting. Is that what John had felt for six months? Hmm. Sherlock calmed his mind, and visualized himself with John, running around London, giggling at crime scenes, bickering, John telling him how to behave. A familiar contentment settled over him- but it was still not quite enough. Hmm. Tentatively, Sherlock pictured his lips on John’s, his hands in John’s hair, hugging John and breathing in his oh-so-comforting smell. A sudden flare of warmth and happiness. Oh.  
Sherlock opened his eyes and steepled his fingers. Very well. His experiment had been conclusive- he, Sherlock Holmes, was in love with John Watson.  
In that case, he was going to stop at nothing to get him back.

***

After three days of noise and chaos and Sherlock being annoying as hell, John was rather taken aback when suddenly the flat subsided into silence. John’s room was appearing smaller and smaller, and he was approaching near-Sherlockian levels of boredom. Perhaps it was time to reconcile with the detective? _Not yet_ , replied his sterner side. As well as John’s wish to punish his flatmate, John had admitted to himself that he didn’t want to talk to Sherlock. John had missed Sherlock, so very much. But what if Sherlock hadn’t missed John? What if John tried to talk to him and didn’t know what to say?  
John’s mobile beeped, and he picked it up apathetically, expecting yet another text from a colleague with get-well wishes. He’d had to phone in sick- “I’ve got flu” sounded much more professional than “My flatmate and best friend returned from the dead and so I have to stay home and pointedly ignore him”.  
John glanced at the message.  
 **Hey, mate. Want to come for a drink later? Molly’s explained some things to me. –Greg Lestrade**  
Molly… Sherlock had explained how she’d helped him to survive and hidden him until he could leave the country. Presumably she’d told Greg that Sherlock wasn’t dead.  
At least it would get him out of the flat, John reflected. Sighing, he tapped out a response. Now he just had to wait until six. And get out of the flat unmolested by his repentant flatmate.

At half past five, John shoved the dresser away from his door and tentatively peeked out. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, his eyes shut and his hands steepled. Suppressing the leap of joy he felt at seeing his flatmate home and grabbing his coat and keys, the doctor made it halfway out the door and paused, looking back in. The words to tell Sherlock where he was going crawled halfway up his throat, and he swallowed them back down, emitting a garbled “Shnnghgh” which received no acknowledgement from the detective. _For goodness’ sake_. Irritated at Sherlock, and himself, John slammed the door on his way down.  
On his way out of the front door, he was accosted by Mrs Hudson. “John, thank goodness! I’ve been going spare, I didn’t know what to think, Sherlock running in and out with flowers and explosives and god knows what else, have you two been having a tiff? I’m sure you’ll make it up in no time, dear. Oh, but isn’t it lovely to have him back? Just like old times! Now, can I get you a cuppa?”  
John cleared his throat. “No, thank you, Mrs Hudson. No, I’m… I’m going out, as a matter of fact.”  
“Going out! Oh, but surely you aren’t leaving him alone? And him just back! Who are you going to see, then?”  
“Nobody! Just Greg. I’m sure Sherlock’ll cope without me for one evening, anyhow. He managed half a year, I think that proves he doesn’t need me.” John was angry at how gulpy his voice was going. He hadn’t cried since the first time at Sherlock’s grave; he didn’t need to now. Ignoring Mrs Hudson’s “But, really, John-”, he shouldered his way out of the door.  
The evening air slipped into John’s shuddering lungs as he walked, calming him. He’d spent so long under his façade of normal existence, replying to every question with “fine”. Now all at once Sherlock had returned, and brought with him a whole circus of emotion- joy and happiness and relief and incredulity, exasperation and irritation and anger, anxiety and residual pain and fear, fear of being left alone again, fear of Sherlock not needing him. _“I’d be lost without my blogger”_ , he’d been told, once upon a time. But did that still stand? Reflecting on the events of the past few days, John was able to conclude that maybe Sherlock still needed him. But how much? Sherlock made John feel alive, John needed Sherlock in order to live- needed him like he needed air or water. Did Sherlock only need John as someone to buy milk and send texts?

“John! Over here, mate!” The doctor looked up to see Greg waving at him from a corner table of the pub. Managing a “hmmm” of greeting, John sat down on the squat chair and ordered a drink.  
Lestrade looked John over and sighed. “Could you maybe have left the thunderclouds at home? I feel like I’m going to drown in your angst. I thought you’d be happy!” As John didn’t reply, Greg inched his chair closer. “Molly told me about Sherlock. That he’s alive, I mean.”  
At this, John couldn’t suppress a grin into his drink. “Yes, it’s true. He’s… alive. And back, he’s back at 221B.”  
Greg exhaled loudly and leaned back in his seat, raising his glass. “I don’t know what to think. I couldn’t believe it at first, but then I figured, well, it’s Sherlock Holmes. If anyone were to come back from the dead, he would.”  
John clinked his glass to Greg’s, and finished it.  
“So… how are you doing?” The DI raised an eyebrow. “Police confidentiality, come on, you can tell me.”  
“Ughhh.” John ordered another pint. “I- don’t know. At the minute, I’m just so glad he’s alive. Even if he is a complete bastard.”  
Lestrade allowed himself a smile. “So, are you two alright, then?”  
“It…depends on what you mean by ‘alright’”, confided John.  
“As in?”  
“As in, I punched him, he tried buying me flowers and now I’m ignoring him.”  
Greg choked on his drink. “Sherlock Holmes bought you flowers?”  
John made a muffled drinking sound.  
“And now you’re ignoring him?”  
“Mmhmm.”  
Lestrade sighed. It was a pity he was going to have to explain this- they’d had a bet going at the Yard before Sherlock fell on how long it would take for John and Sherlock to become a couple which he’d been looking forward to restarting. Nevertheless…  
He leaned forward. “John, mate, I want you to talk to me. What exactly do you feel towards Sherlock Holmes?”

*

As Greg stopped talking, John slumped to the waxed table and put his head in his hands. “Oh god.”  
Greg smiled. “I’m right, though, aren’t I?”  
John’s muffled voice issued from behind his hands. “Oh god. I am.” Images were racing through his mind. Heads in the refrigerator, and putting the milk next to them without a second thought. Being called home from anywhere in the world just to hand Sherlock something, and still giving it to him. Having all his dates wrecked and not really minding because, at the end of the day, he had Sherlock to come home to. The exhilaration and freedom of running through London, of being near to Sherlock and his moods and his mind. Wearing sheets in Buckingham Palace, giggling at crime scenes. The pain he’d felt when Sherlock fell. The euphoria of having him back. The desire he felt to be close to him.  
“Oh god, I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes.” John raised his head from the table. “I need another drink.”

***

Sherlock looked up from his brooding the minute John left. Jacket, but it wasn’t cold enough to need one in a taxi, so he was walking somewhere. No changes in apparel, so not a date, but not a heavier coat, so not planning on walking for a long time- the pub, then. No signs of alcohol in the flat, and no evidence that John did anything in the evenings other than stay in, so not going for his own benefit. To meet someone, then. Molly? Unlikely- he could see her at Barts any time, and she usually went to bed very early. But it had to be someone connected with Sherlock’s return- why else would John go out tonight and not at any other time for the past six months? Mrs Hudson knew, Molly knew. That left Greg. It was likely that Molly had told him. Given the important topic of conversation and the amount John usually drank, Sherlock could expect John to return at approximately half past nine. Not soon enough.  
Despite having deduced exactly where John was going, Sherlock was still disappointed that John had not told him.  
Uncurling from the chair, Sherlock frowned irritably. He had finally worked out how to get John speaking to him again. Sherlock had a sneaking feeling that in John’s eyes, his strategy would be a bit not good, but he didn’t care any more. He wanted John back.  
Grabbing his phone, Sherlock began typing out a text.

***

John was interrupted in his drinking by his phone buzzing. Pulling it out, he felt a little flop of happiness.  
 **Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. –SH**  
Sighing, he picked up his jacket. “Thanks, Greg. I’m going home now. Better not leave Sherlock alone for too long- he might blow something up.”  
Another buzz.  
 **If inconvenient, come anyway. –SH**  
“No problem, mate.” Greg was grinning. “You go on home to Sherlock.”  
“Quit looking so smug. I’ll see you around.” John paid up and headed out the door, waiting for the third text which he knew was coming.  
A third buzz.  
 **Could be dangerous. –SH**  
A wide smile bloomed over John’s face, and he started to run. He didn’t know whether he wanted to stop ignoring Sherlock, to hit him or kiss him or blank him. At this point, all he cared about was being in the same place as the man he loved.

At the top of the stairs John paused, took several deep breaths and straightened his expression, before pushing open the door to the flat.  
The room was entirely dark and silent.  
Fighting off a sickening sense of panic, John turned on the light. No Sherlock. No Sherlock in the kitchen. No Sherlock in the bathroom or in either of the bedrooms. No milk in the fridge or flower petals on the floor. No violin. No skull on the mantelpiece. The smiley face had been painted over.  
John spun round in a frenzy of panic, holding his head. “No… no…” He couldn’t be gone again. John’s thoughts were hopping around like tiny frogs, or shards of glass. “Sherlock!”  
John’s shout echoed dismally through the empty flat. “Sherlock! Oh god. Sherlock!” John sank to the floor, waves of pain and loneliness and despair crashing over him, unwilling to move or think or even breathe.  
There were footsteps on the stairs, and a blurry figure loomed over John, extending a hand.  
“I’m here, John.” His voice sent tidal waves of relief and fury thundering through John.  
John flung himself to his feet, angrily blinking away his tears. “Sherlock! For god’s sake! Never- do- that- to- me- again!” Sherlock looked apprehensive, clearly remembering the punches from earlier, as John flung himself towards the detective. This time, however, John’s arms curled around the taller man, desperately pulling their bodies together.  
Marshalling his thoughts from the explosion of delight which had coursed through them at his flatmate’s touch, Sherlock decided that now would be a good time to make another attempt at an apology. “John, I’m sorr-”  
He was cut off, as John’s lips crashed against his own. “I forgive you, you idiot. I love you, and I always have. Just- never leave me like that again, okay?”  
“Yes!” John stared on, bemused, as Sherlock jumped in the air, grinning as though an impossible theft and a serial killer had been rolled into one. “Yes, John!” Leaping over the sofa, he brought his mouth down to John’s, then pulled away. “Let’s tell Mrs Hudson. No need to keep up the rent on two bedrooms now, is there?”

*

Waking up in the morning beside his flatmate-turned-lover, John felt happier than he ever had in his life. Except…  
Sherlock had not said that he loved John back.  
Determined to settle this last anxiety, John prodded Sherlock. “Sherlock…” The words were difficult to get out past John’s fear of rejection. He swallowed. “Sherlock.”  
One light-blue eye cracked open, and a sleepy voice issued from the pillows. "I know what you're going to ask."  
John rolled his eyes. Bloody infuriating know-it-all. Resisting the urge to hit his Sherlock with a pillow, John quashed the anxiety in his stomach and managed to choke out some form of question. "And, um. Do you? Um. You know."  
Sherlock stirred and turned over, mumbling sleepily. “As ever, John, you see but do not observe. As I have told you before, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”  
And as light dawned over 221B Baker Street, and the detective’s arms went around the doctor, it felt like the greatest truth of all.

**Author's Note:**

> Transferred over from fanfiction.net. This is my first prose fic, so any comments, constructive criticism, etcetera, are very much appreciated.  
> Virtual cupcakes to anyone who picks up on Deathly Hallows references. I couldn't resist.  
> And hooray for stupidly sappy endings!  
> Thanks for reading -Ro :)


End file.
